Never Trust a Fortune Cookie
by mromanova
Summary: After a visit to a Chinese restaurant, just as they are about to open the fortune cookies, an earthquake occurs and the next day Sherlock and John have switched bodies. How will Sherlock be able to give John's patients medical consultation. And how will John be able to help Sherlock's clients? And how will they convince others that nothing has happened at all?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**Disclaimer: John and Sherlock belong to BBC and Gatiss & Moffat, not me unfortunately!**

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"- so how did you _really _find the missing key?" John asked, and popped the last fried popsticker into his mouth.

Sherlock, whose gaze had been shifting between the other diners, probably for the purpose of deduction, looked back at John. A shadow of annoyance passed over his face. "I told you, it was obvious from the start. Didn't really need any more clues than the woman's broken nail – the rest was just-"

"For show?" John filled in for him, shaking his head. "Why do you never admit that you need a little more than a single clue to find the answer. I mean, _come on, _a broken nail, Sherlock? Just admit that you don't always know everything from the start!"

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "But then I'd be _lying._"

John groaned. "Of course, the genius is perfect in each and every way and is never wrong, only other people are."

"I never said that."

"See!" John cried out. "You're always contradicting me, always!"

He was about to continue when he had to fall silent as a waiter appeared to clear the table. Another showed immediately after with a kettle of jasmine tea and two fortune cookies.

When he had left John took a deep breath and reminded himself why they had come here: lately there had been a strain in their relationship – somehow every conversation they had ended in a fight or at least an argument. So John had proposed to come to this traditional Chinese restaurant in the outskirts of London in the hope that, for a moment at least, the bickering would end.

He snorted. So much for that.

Sherlock, seemingly have forgotten that he was irritated just minutes ago, lit up as he picked up his fortune cookie. "Lottery ticket number," he persumed or deduced, John didn't really know nor care anymore.

Sighing, John picked up his own and was about to crack it open when something happened that would come to rock their world.

Literally.

All of a sudden, without warning, the ground started to shake. Wine and water glasses toppled off the table and broke into a million pieces. The fortune cookies slid out of their hands and they slid off of their chairs. Concrete dust rained from the ceiling and John was for a moment very seriously afraid that the ceiling would crack and fall down on them.

But very strangely, the earthquake – (how could it have been an earthquake? John wondered, an earthquake in London of all places?!) – ceased almost as quickly as it had begun.

Bewildered, John and Sherlock looked at eachother. Despite the circumstances, John felt a twinge of satisfaction as he saw the consulting detective look completely taken by surprise. It was not often he could enjoy such an expression upon his friend's face.

The management of the restaurant came out of the kitchen and apologized to all the guests, as if it had been their fault. John had to assure them that they were fine and that they didn't have to worry for a good 20 minutes before he and Sherlock could leave.

For some reason though, as they hailed a cab and drove through night-time London, it looked as if nobody had at all been affected by the earthquake. John saw people walking about as if nothing at all had happened. It made him frown but he was not in the mood to ask Sherlock for advice. The latter was sitting quiet and distant anyway, staring at some point in front of him, perhaps also wondering about the strange events that had occured.

As soon as they arrived at 221B, they both retreated to their rooms without exchanging another word. John would have liked to have spoken to Mrs. Hudson about the earthquake, maybe she had seen something on the telly, but it was late and he didn't want to wake her. So he went to bed early and wasn't even disturbed as he heard Sherlock starting to play a melancholy tone on his violin...

He awoke with what felt like the nastiest hangover he had ever had. Strange, since he hadn't had anything but a glass of red last night. He rubbed his face and stumbled out of bed. A nice long bath would do the trick, he thought. It had always helped when he'd had a killer hangover in his teen years.

As he crossed the living room, he rubbed his sore eyes and finally opened them fully – and stopped.

He felt his jaw fall open.

What he saw was himself coming out of Sherlock's bedroom. Like a mirror image in physical form. But a mirror image that had a life of its own it seemed, yawning and stretching, with only a sheet wrapped around him, something that Sherlock always-

He froze. No, no way. No no no.

With trembling fingers he felt his hair. Curls, and lots of them. And as he looked down on his body his limbs had seemingly grown several inches, the pyjamas now too short on both the arms and legs.

He looked up again and the other John stared back at him, a look of utmost horror upon him.

"John?" the other John asked.

"Sherlock?" John replied in Sherlock's baritone voice.

"Aw, shit," they both said in unison.

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**Hey, be a John and leave a review! Or be a Sherlock and count all the flaws (but in a constructive way)! Or be a Mycroft and follow this story without doing any of the former! In every case, I'll be a Molly if you read ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**First off, thank you so much for the reviews and the follows and the reads! You were all genuine Johns and Mycrofts and even Moriartys in that moment, I swear. You keep the kegs in this story turning.**

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**Chapter Two**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to BBC, Gatiss and Moffat and this guy called Arthur Conan Doyle (who is this fella?)**

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This could not be happening.

This could _not _be happening.

How could this be happening? John desperately racked his brains for an explanation. Could maybe someone have spiked his wine with a hallucinogen, back at the Chinese restaurant? Or maybe he was dreaming, but it didn't feel like it. Or...

"If this another one of your experiments, Sherlock," he began, cringing at hearing himself speak with Sherlock's voice.

"Don't be daft," Sherlock replied dryly, his suprised look instantaneously gone and replaced by his usual jaunty expression. John thought it was amazing how even though Sherlock was now inhabiting _his _body, he still seemed so very... Sherlock. "If it had been one of my experiments, I wouldn't have been part of it."

John slowly counted to ten in his head. As things were now, he couldn't be punching Sherlock or he'd be punching himself.

"OK," he finally said as he had more or less calmed down a bit. "OK. So if not one of your experiments, what is this then? And more importantly, how do we make this go away?"

Sherlock sank down into his armchair and put his fingertips together. "I don't know," he said and then smiled all of a sudden. "But it is intriguing though, isn't it?"

"Intriguing? No, Sherlock, this is not intriguing," John cried out. "This is down-right _scary_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, don't be so dramatic! Surely it must feel nice to be a couple of inches taller. Now you can even reach the top shelves at Tesco."

Of course this git would be amused by all of this, John thought. On the other hand, he knew he shouldn't expect more from a man whose primary sources of entertainment were kidnapping and murder.

"How do we figure this out then?" he asked and sat down in his armchair, at once feeling exhausted. "Come on, activate your genuis. And please, please, put on some clothes, it's awkward enough as it is."

Sherlock looked down at his – well, what now was his – body draped in that single sheet of linen. "What's the problem, John? You don't have any self-esteem issues, do you?"

As a reply, with much difficulty and self-sacrifice, John handed Sherlock his morning robe.

Then he looked down at himself and realized how ridiculous he must look now that his pyjamas were too small for him. Well, if he had still been in his own body, he'd probably have laughed at the sight and part of him did want to dress in bizarre clothing as revenge for all those times Sherlock made him look like a fool. But if Sherlock got into his head to retaliate, the fun would very quickly be over.

So feeling very smug and awkward about it, John got up and headed to Sherlock's bedroom. As usual, the bed hadn't been slept in but was covered in all kinds of weird items. John rummaged through the wardrobe – (who had actually bought all of these clothes? John wondered. He couldn't exactly picture Sherlock going shopping...) and grabbed the nearest shirt and pants he could find.

Once he was dressed he looked at himself in the mirror and though this was what Sherlock usually dressed like, it felt like he was going to a business meeting or a funeral or something else important.

Looking too long into the mirror made him feel like he was losing his mind again though so he quickly left the bedroom and returned to the living room. Sherlock hadn't moved out of the armchair but at least put on the robe.

Suddenly, John heard someone coming up the stairs to their flat. He looked at Sherlock in panic, hoping his _so intelligent _friend knew what to do.

"It's Mrs. Hudson, with groceries," he said, yawning, as he noticed John's stare.

"What – what do we do?" John, at once embaressed over their situation. He looked around the room for an ample hiding place. Behind the armchair maybe? The fireplace?

"Act normal," Sherlock drawled. "Act like me."

"Well, then, you should act like me as well. And I never do that silly pose with my hands. Here!" John fetched him a scone from the kitchen and pressed it into his hand. But the picture wasn't complete yet. He found a coffee mug with some cold coffee and yesterday's newspaper and gave it to Sherlock as well. "That's better."

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look. "I'm not drinking the coffee."

John pretended not to have heard him. Instead he grabbed Sherlock's violin, put it under his chin and scraped the bow over the strings. The resulting noise was so painful to listen to, out of the open window John heard a passerby ask loudly what the ratchet was.

In that moment, Mrs. Hudson came into their flat, her hands full of grocery bags. John quickly put away the violin. Never picking _that_ awful thing up ever again, he thought.

"Good morning, boys!" Mrs. Hudson greeted them cheerily.

"Good morning," they answered together, just as they usually did.

But then John forgot that he was in Sherlock's body and hurried to help with the groceries – something Sherlock, despite being very attached to Mrs. Hudson, never actually did.

It was kind of fun to see the surprised look on her face though. "Thank you, sweetie. Oh, by the way, I got you those five-litre jars you asked for."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied automatically.

Not as quick as he wants to think he is, John thought.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a puzzled stare.

"Thank you for the jam I mean," Sherlock quickly corrected himself and smiled apologetically. "Because you did get jam, didn't you?"

"Yes... let's see, strawberry, cherry and –"

Too late did John notice the devious twinkle in Sherlock's eyes. "I love jam," he said. "This is a secret so don't tell anybody but when I'm alone I just sit down with a spoon and a jar and eat it all up in ten minutes flat."

Mrs. Hudson opened and then closed her mouth several times and then looked at John for guidance. "What's he going on about?" she whispered.

John was boiling inside and could not do more than shake his head at Mrs. Hudson. "Shut up," he angrily mouthed at Sherlock.

But Sherlock only smiled broadly. "That's why I asked Sherlock to ask you to buy those five-litre jars. All for jam. Never going to eat anything else ever again. Also, did you know that I enjoy long baths?"

OK. Fine. If he was going to play it that way, John would not take it lying down.

"Very interesting, John, really. But I think Mrs. Hudson will be more pleased to hear that I've decided to build ten foot statue of myself because god knows I haven't given enough expression to my inflated ego already."

"Boys, please!" Mrs. Hudson interrupted them and gave them both a reprimanding look. "I don't know what the matter is with you two, but do try to find a solution. I've been listening to your endless bickering for weeks now. One might think you've been married for twenty odd years..." She shook her head and headed out of the flat.

As soon as she was out of earshot, John turned to Sherlock and threw up his arms. "What the bloody hell was that?"

Sherlock shrugged and put away the items John had given him. "Bored."

John was about to go on a long rant about how immature his flatmate was being, when he glanced at the clock and realized what the time was. "Oh, shi.. I'm going to be late. They need me at the clinic."

"You?" Sherlock smirked. "Unless they all have some case waiting to be solved which is possible but not probable I don't think they'll be needing consulting detective Sherlock Holmes."

"Right, right." John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Then you need to go."

"Prostate examinations and flu shots aren't really my forte," Sherlock replied casually. "I can just call in sick and stay here, maybe someone interesting will come."

"The hell you are," John said crossly, grabbed his briefcase and threw it at Sherlock. "People need m... I mean you. So you're going. I'm sure with a brain like yours figuring out how to help my patients will be like a walk through the park."

Sherlock nodded slowly to himself. "You're right. Fresh faces, maybe someone exciting to deduce. As for giving them medical treatment, how hard can it be?"

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**We'll see Sherlock, we'll see.**

**Updating as soon as I can. In the meantime, hang in there fellow Sherlockians. God knows we're good at it. (OK, I realize that joke is not as funny when we're on hiatus)**


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